


Datura

by Walor



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Grayson (Comics)
Genre: Art, M/M, Mirror Sex, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 15:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17604275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walor/pseuds/Walor
Summary: In one of the few mistakes of his life, Tiger underestimates an organization with a master who possesses an obsession for those of extraordinary talent.





	Datura

**Author's Note:**

> A fic for the lovely Max for drawing the beautiful art seen in this fic.

The ground is cold.  
  
There’s a better adjective for that, it sounds too ridiculously simple, something a child would describe. Water is wet, the sky is blue, and the stones are cold. They are, in fact, beyond “cold.” They are glacial, so icy to the touch that it burns against his naked back like molten coals. The numbness that is supposed to come after exposure never does, if anything the longer he remains curled up on the floor, the more intense the feeling grows. He’s done cold-water training in the Barents Sea like every other Spyral agent, but the memory makes the artic water akin to the delightful treatment of a sauna than anything like this. He was naked then, practically the same now with the exception of the long, emerald green, silk loincloth that drapes down between his legs. If anything, the cool touch of the silk feels worse than the water coming into contact with his bare skin.  
  
Nothing compares, however, to the freezing touch of the gold collar tight around his neck. It’s become a band of ice heavy on his throat after being exposed so long to the night air.  
  
A shiver wracks Tiger’s body, teeth chattering loudly against one another. A stray wind brushes against his cheek, leaving a burn in its path. The view from the balcony is, admittedly, stunning. Tiger, when he is not holding onto his sides as he shakes violently, traces the peaks of the Himalayas. Repeats their names under his breath in English, Tibetan, Cantonese, and Nepali to try and remain at least partially sane. Until he is distracted once more by the all-encompassing thought that the stones are too cold.  
  
A rush of warm air suddenly washes over his back accompanied by a bright light. Nothing extreme, barely hot, yet Tiger arches away as if he’s burned. Certainly, feels that way with the sudden temperature difference that makes him gasp and shake against the icy stones. Behind him, in that unbearable heat, comes that deep and delighted laughter Tiger has come to hate over the past week—or weeks, even a month—since he’s been here.  
  
“I think that’s enough of your punishment for now.” The voice says. “Ubu, bring him inside.”  
  
Tiger doesn’t move, but Ubu doesn’t expect him too. His enormous form casts a shadow over Tiger’s entire body, beady brown eyes glancing down at him when he steps into frame. There is a half-healed scar on his right cheek. Deep and jagged from the blade of a knife that’s only just starting to lose its scab. Tiger knows this because he’s the one that left it there.  
  
Weeks ago, or even this morning, Tiger would have fought. Punched and kicked and snarled at Ubu or David Cain when they came to take him wherever that voice demanded it of them. Done it dozens of times that their wounds have yet to scar with how often Tiger re-opens them. It never matters if Tiger beats them or not, five more take their place, then seven, then ten. He knows it’s stupid to waste his energy, but he does because it’s the only dignity Tiger can afford himself now that he’s been stripped away of everything else.  
  
Ubu’s hands are hot, too hot, on his skin. Tiger barely has the energy to keep his head up when Ubu picks him and carries him inside, off the terrible balcony. The room just inside is a lavish bedroom Tiger’s grown to despise. Everything from the obnoxiously large, king bed adorned with satin sheets and an insane number of pillows all on an awfully comfortable mattress—all, of course, shades of rich green. Along the walls are various tapestries from early 200 A.D. still pristine and well cared for by the numerous servants that roam the palace, or, _compound’s_ halls. The floor is mostly stone with the exception of several variously sized Persian rugs, free of dirt and soft to Tiger’s chapped feet.  
  
Aside from the basics, and that is strange to consider these luxurious items to be basic, there are a number of potted plants—all extinct flora, donated by an “anonymous” admirer—and candles that fill the room with the powerful scent of jasmine. In the center is a pair of mahogany chairs with plush cushions centered around a polished table where a porcelain teakettle rests. Beside it are two cups filled to the top. It’s honestly like stepping back in time several eras, but who would expect otherwise from the owner of the bedroom.  
  
Still laying in the center of the rug in the middle of the room is the evidence of Tiger’s mistake. A cracked marble chessboard he threw from the table lays amongst scattered obsidian pawns and ivory knights on the floor. His frustrated anger at his situation finally boiled over into one vicious display of his growing sense of hopelessness.  
  
It was not appreciated.  
  
Ubu does not drop him on the bed. Instead, he takes him to the foot of it, right where the nearest rug ends. In the ground is little ring, screwed into the stone where a chain, thick and fashioned of titanium with a gold-leaf coating, is piled among the ground. He sets Tiger down, takes the end of the chain and attaches it to Tiger’s collar. This one second of freedom leaves him the moment Ubu locks the chain in place, Tiger, too busy shaking to do anything, lets out a weak noise of shock.  
  
The voice behind him, always behind him, laughs, drawing closer when Ubu steps away and out through the main doors. Tiger barely has enough energy to force himself onto his knees. He does though, to spare himself the embarrassment of being looked down at.  
  
Soft footsteps pad around him slowly. The interior of the room is too hot too soon; sweat is already starting to drip down the length of his spine. Nothing, however, compares to the heat of the man that stops at his back.  
  
Fingers card through his hair. Slow. Gentle. “Namir.”  
  
It is not his name. Exhausted from his hour spent on the balcony Tiger does not correct him. Too tired to even shrug off the hand that tugs through his exposed hair—his shemagh was burned on _his_ command, the first of many indignities—as he normally would. The only rebellion he can afford himself is focusing his glare on the opposite end of the room, the large entryway to the rest of the compound. Tiger’s _only_ chance of freedom is a consistent and terrible taunt, an unlocked door and a long reaching chain always in _his_ hand.  
  
Tiger barely remembers what even brought him out here, to Nanda Parbat, in the first place. Something about the League of Assassins sending a number of their prominent contacts, Sandra Wu-san and David Cain, into Nepal. He wouldn’t have gone, _shouldn’t_ have gone as the newly elected Patron, but Spyral was still recovering from Minos’ damage. Tiger was the only agent with enough field experience they could spare.  
  
Should have waited. Should have formulated a back-up plan and gone in with an escape route in place. Tiger didn’t, couldn’t considering the time frame of the case. He flew to Tibet the moment he received Helena’s transmission. He’d managed the climb up the mountain, as all initiates to the League do. They welcomed him. _He_ welcomed Tiger. It was too easy, too simple an acceptance, but Tiger had been arrogant. There was no reason to doubt what he had trained his whole life to be able to accomplish.  
  
It took three nights in the compound before the demon wanted a new piece to add to his bedroom’s collection. Tiger is an exceptionally skilled fighter. He wouldn’t have been made agent one and then Patron if he were soft or incompetent. He had beaten legions of fighters, half-dead after being washed ashore from a shipwreck in Gibraltar and then went on to pick off every single Spyral agent during Grayson's time. He is not weak. Nor is he that dreadful of a combatant that something as small as being outnumbered would be that much of a disadvantage to him, ambush or not.  
  
He'd been called to the main hall after Fajr prayer on the fourth day, like he had been many times already during his short stay. He should have realized it then, the hush that had fallen over the compound that morning in the pre-light of dawn. Should have sent out a distress signal, should have done a myriad of things that he had ignored for the sake of pride. Arrogance had always been man's greatest undoing; he never realized he'd become so blind to his own.  
  
Tiger walked into a room void of League men save for their master. One man should have been nothing, no matter how long _this_ one had roamed the Earth. There were barely any words between them, neither man felt like keeping up the pretense of the other's lie. _He_ only tilted his head and Tiger fell on him in a burst of controlled violence and speed.  
  
Against any other man, the sudden attack would have rendered them disadvantaged in their surprise. But for someone who hadn't been simply a man for hundreds of years he laughed.  
  
The fight lasted only five seconds. Three careful blows to specific pressure points had his vision go dark and his body lock up before he even hit the stones. The next thing Tiger remembers are dozens of hands holding him still in hot, scented water while those green eyes burned every molecule of his bare body. Scratching and snarling did nothing; there were too many men for his locked-up muscles. The bath was a luxurious and large, floor pool with dark quartz glittering above him in the rock ceiling. Not that he got that great of a look the first time when his eyes were still murky and there were too many faces at once.  
  
Until their master stood from where he had been watching on the other side of the pool. Green cloak left behind, cast over a mahogany chair at the end of the pool. Too distracted fighting off the hands that scrubbed between his thighs, he didn't see _him_ until _his_ too smooth hand reached down and took hold of his chin. Tilted his head back and slipped a thumb in between his teeth.  
  
" _Drink."_  
  
Beyond that is only the memory of the taste of floral tea thick in his mouth that made his body as pliable as warm wax.  
  
“ _Aphrodisiacs and the steamed flowers of the Sacred Datura flower, Namir_ ,” a voice had purred. Rough stubble scratched against the skin of his cheek as hands, free of callouses and wrinkles, skimmed up his trembling chest. Above him were constellations in the freckles of the roof, writhing and moving amongst each other in obscene little dances. “ _It causes hallucinations and then death. This is for your facade. If you survive the night you will be forgiven and then forever mine_.”  
  
Behind him came a head, animal in shape with a long, canine-like muzzle. Sharp teeth grazed against his neck as green eyes, human eyes, met his own. _His_ long tongue licked up the side of Tiger's neck, the creature’s hands finding his legs and spreading them far apart. When sharp teeth pierced the skin of his neck the world faded into sparks of blistering white light. What follows Tiger cannot remember, only feel sensations of lingering phantom touches that tease and scratch at the skin of places he will not name.  
  
His head is tugged back suddenly. The chain has been yanked far above his head and Tiger reaches up to grasp at the collar to try and stop it from completely cutting off his air. He chokes and grunts and rises on his knees to get slack in the chain only for the hand gripping it to hold it higher. His body, still partially frozen, locks up and aches with the sudden snap and twist of his muscles.  
  
“There, do I have your attention now?”  
  
Above him, _he_ , Ra’s, looks down at him. That insufferable smirk is bright on his too-young face. He’s bathed recently, the gray in his hair from the night before now gone only rich, ebony-black. Even the smile lines around his eyes have softened and his green eyes are even brighter than they had been when Tiger knocked over their chess game. Grayson would have made a joke about how incredible it was that Ra’s was able to change into that awful cape and garb of his in less than an hour.  
  
Tiger swallows tightly. Dick knows about Ra’s he has eyes on Nanda Parbat-  
  
Ra’s yanks the chain again and Tiger chokes, a growl falling from his mouth as he stares at his _master_ angrily.  
  
“I don’t like being ignored,” Ra’s says, simply. Tiger would snort if he could. Of course, Ra’s arrogance couldn’t handle being without his attention for a minute.  
  
Tiger curls his lip but says nothing. Ra’s hates it more when he is silent.  
  
Ra’s bends down, the hand in his hair, dropping to his shoulder. The bite mark from that fourth day has scarred and faded now, nothing but a light ring of knotted tissue on the line of his neck. Ra’s presses his palm against it and, though it’s healed, Tiger squirms and grunts at the sharp twinge of pain that comes. Ra’s chuckles lets his hand fall down Tiger’s chest, nails dragging over the middle of his tender nipple, cupping the curve of his chest. It goes lower, follows the grooves and dips of his abdominal muscles, stretched out and displayed from the angle he holds Tiger in before it finally reaches the decorative metal front piece of the loincloth. The only thing he's been allowed to wear since his recovery from Ra's poisoned tea.  
  
“You are mine, Namir, habibi,” Ra’s dips two fingers beneath the cloth. Tiger grits his teeth to hold back a gasp. No matter how often Ra’s touches him—and it is annoyingly often—every skim of his finger feels like it’s the first time. Tiger doubts he will ever get used to Ra’s hands, so eerily perfect, on his skin. Hopes that someone else comes and soon now that he has stopped actively trying to escape. Can’t handle the punishments Ra’s delivers when he does.  
  
His body shakes, a train of memories raining down on his back, along every crisscrossing whip scar on his thighs and spine. His cock, now nothing more than a well-trained dog, twitches pathetically. Thinks of those terrible nights spent restrained and teased and edged and pushed to the very precipice of his control only for Ra’s to deny him over and over with a rising tide of want.  
  
Ra’s withdraws his fingers and Tiger shakily exhales only for Ra’s to turn his nails down against his skin and drag them up along Tiger’s stomach. Bright, red trails left in their wake. The whine that falls from Tiger’s clenched teeth is obscene.  
  
“Your body,” Ra’s purrs. “Your mind, your talent,” Ra’s tugs the chain up and up and up. Forcing Tiger to move, rises on unsteady feet until he is standing, eye level with his own personal nightmare.  
  
“Your pleasure,” Ra’s drops his hand and pushes the loincloth away to take Tiger’s limp cock. “Is always and forever will be mine.”  
  
What scares Tiger the most, more than the thought of rescue never coming and being forced to stay at Ra's side for an eternity's age is, in fact, the growing need that's starting to come at the very sight of Ra's smirk. The rising tide of contentment that strengths every hour of every minute he stays closed off in Ra's quarters tended to by a myriad of caretakers. That once urgent distress that pushed him to try and escape until his neck was covered in black bruises from the collar is progressively fading. In its wake is something that Tiger fears more so than anything he has ever experienced in the past, a drive to _stay.  
_  
It is exactly what Ra's wants.  
  
Tiger's "tantrum" as Ra's called it earlier, before his punishment on the balcony, was never aimed at him. It was a gut reaction to Tiger's own terrible conclusion of his current state of escape. Ra's had cornered his queen piece, knights and bishops stolen, leaving his king open to attack and in that moment, reminded him so blatantly of escape Tiger realized, to his own dawning horror, that he had no plans. Satisfied to watch as Ra's moved his own queen across the black and white spaces to his king's side and smiled at him. _Shah Mat.  
  
_It was a gut reaction; to throw the board to the floor the moment the rising panic consumed his blood. Hyperventilating came next along with scratching and pulling at his golden collar. Ra's took it remarkably well, from what Tiger remembers--most of his memories of before the balcony are a symphony of screaming emotions tugging at the raw nerves of his brain, distress and alarm being the most obvious. He simply watched Tiger writhe on the floor of the bedroom yanking at his neck before he called through the open doors for Ubu to take Tiger to the balcony to regain himself. After that, the world returned from the burning sting of cold stones against his naked back.  
  
A thumb traces over the head of his cock, fingernail digging slightly inside the sensitive slit. Tiger gasps and Ra's releases the hold of his collar and chain, leaving him there to sag on his knees.  
  
It would be so easy, now, to throw his head forward into Ra's symmetrical nose. His face is merely inches away, lowering himself down to better handle Tiger's cock. Close enough that Tiger can study the shades of emerald in his eyes, hidden amongst it are the glittering flecks of Lazarus green-madness. A sharp grin spreads across Ra's mouth exposing the pristine whites of his teeth and Tiger swallows audibly.  
  
"My pet," Ra's says. "You are disappearing too often inside your head, do you enjoy forcing me to pull you back out?"  
  
_You don't like it because you cannot follow me there,_ Tiger would say, had it not been so ridiculously redundant. It was the only place that Ra's could not control, where the roots of his power had not yet entirely taken hold. But it was close, way too close for anything Tiger would have liked. He's dangling far too treacherously into Stockholm syndrome territory at this point and knows just how easily lines can be crossed, if only for a momentary respite.  
  
Especially tonight, exhausted from exposure to the howling winds of the Himalayas, the inner turmoil of his own complacency with Ra's care makes it exceedingly easy to wish for things to be simple. Especially when Ra's too perfect hands let go of his cock to slip behind his back and the crook of his knees and lift him up, careful as if handling a porcelain doll.  
  
The sheets on the bed are as comfortable as Tiger remembers them. The silk cradles the knotted heap of scar tissue on his back and the faux fur blanket near his face almost lulls him to sleep entirely. Scents of sandalwood and jasmine are stronger here, even with the incense burning in the corners of the room. More despicable is the response it draws from Tiger, an overwhelming urge to turn his head and bury his face into the soft fabrics and just breathe and _feel._ He must do it partly, in his exhausted haze, because Ra's chuckles above him.  
  
"You paint a lovely picture like this, Namir," Ra's lowers himself onto the side of his enormous bed. Reaches out to push the emerald silk of the loincloth out of the way, encouraging Tiger's legs to fall open wider. They go easily, and Tiger turns his head to partially hide the burning flush that rises on his cheek. "Despite your ill intentions when you first came to me, I knew you'd fit among the League. I have never been more pleased to be proven so right."  
  
Ra's trails his hand along the soft skin of Tiger's inner thigh, shaved bare. The only hair he's been allowed to keep are the curls on his head and trimmed, facial hair. Ra's keeps a small, waxed portion on his chest and below his navel to sometimes card his fingers through. Beyond that, any trace of hair is plucked, waxed, or shaved free the moment it starts to rise. All of these tasks Ra's does himself, like most things when it comes to Tiger's "care."  
  
Tiger shifts as Ra's skirts his fingers higher, feather-light touches along the dip of his hip, higher and higher until he finds the golden, metal piece of the loincloth. "No argument to spare for me tonight?"  
  
His glare either comes across as tired resignation or more of a pout because Ra's only smiles bright and draws his hand up to rest against Tiger's collar. Laughs the same way one does when they see a beloved pet do something amusing--which definitely does not help Tiger's self-esteem in this scenario.  
  
"That's alright," Ra's presses down, just enough that breathing becomes the slightest bit difficult. "I am not looking for your words tonight."  
  
Slipping off the bed Ra's snaps a finger. It still surprises Tiger, even with the amount of time he's spent observing Ra's daily life, to see men donned in black, silk robes descend from the shadows of the room. Certain he would have noticed them earlier if it weren't for the distracting scents and partially frozen mind. The men work carefully and quickly, removing Ra's cloak from his shoulders, his armor from his arms, chest, and legs. Another man takes the pieces and stores them appropriately nearby on a rack of shining platinum, doing this until Ra's is left in nothing but his olive-green slacks.  
  
Another snap has the men leaving, disappearing the way they came until only Ra's and Tiger remain. Or, at least, seem to be.  
  
Ra's settles down on the side of the bed once more. If there were any lingering doubts of his earlier bath in the pit the sight of Ra's built chest, free of age and scars, does the job. It is incredible, even to Tiger, what that befouled water can do to a human body. Ra's barely looks older than his early thirties with definite muscle in the cut lines of his abdomen and arms. If anything, it is terrifying that his body now surpasses Tiger's, whose own is now starting to soften with inactivity.  
  
A purr leaves Ra's throat, eyes raking down the length of Tiger's body, chest starting to shake with every stuttering inhale. It's unfortunate that his cock has betrayed him so early, the scents of jasmine and sandalwood too exotic to his nose paired with the sight of Ra's flawless body. Knows just how powerful it is too. How tightly those hands have grabbed and pinned Tiger's wrists to the silk sheets or the power in his hips that left bruises for days. Tiger had filled the compound with the sounds of his howls.  
  
His cock twitches against his thigh, steadily rising the longer Ra's towers over him. He should move, turn over before Ra's tries anything else, but his legs and arms refuse to budge. Content, it seems, to stay where they are in the embrace of Ra's bed.  
  
This reaction does not go unnoticed by Ra's. He leans over, one hand coming to rest in the space beside Tiger's head. "While I admit I do enjoy reminding you of just where you belong, having you loose and open below me is hardly a punishment."  
  
Ra's kisses him. The taste alone is enough to make anyone gag. Ash and decay the most prominent taste that worm inside along with Ra's tongue. Furious, Tiger has only enough energy to grip the folds of the sheets below him and turn his head to the side. Kissing is the only thing Tiger actively shies away from, the action to intimate for him to begrudgingly accept. Does not mean Ra's never stops trying.  
  
He laughs and sits back on his heels, eyes half-lidded. "Not today either I see."  
  
_Not ever,_ Tiger glowers, little good it does. Ra's hums, letting his hand rise up to curl through Tiger's hair, gentle and soothing. That's probably the worst of all Ra's little tortures. Beatings, floggings, and more he can take. It grounds him in ways that most people would go mad from--masochistic, certainly, but Tiger supposes that all Spyral agents had to have some level anyway, the life would be too hard for them otherwise. The tenderness, however, is off-putting. Ra's doles it out liberally the way any other man with a Spyral agent in their grasp would deliver pain.  
  
It's easier to lose track of time, when incense and floral, hallucinogenic teas cloud his memory, the only things in between are steady hands dragging up and down the sides of his chest. Pleasure has been overwhelming; pain nothing but a distant memory. It seems the League isn't a group of sadistic torturers, not like Tiger had incorrectly assumed from the little intel Spyral had. Their master, likewise, isn't a man that resorts to run-of-the-mill cruelty like any other big-name terrorist.  
  
Ra's is, has always been, his own unique brand of horrifying.  
  
Two clever fingers find one of his nipples. Pressing down, Ra's rolls the length of his fingers down the sensitive rise of the nub, curling around the curve of his chest before his palm follows. Tiger's head falls back further against the bed as Ra's other hand lies across his neglected tit. Spends several minutes massaging the skin, squeezing and pressing them against each other all the while Tiger's breathing grows heavier with every firm press of his hand. Oversensitive from cold and weak to the familiar, overhanging warm scents in the room, it isn't long before Tiger's blood starts to race hot and fast beneath his skin.  
  
Gooseflesh spreads down his arms and legs, and he writhes as Ra's thumbs circle the dark skin of his nipple. Tries to hold back a groan for as long as he can, gritting his teeth with every tug and pinch to the buds until one finally hisses out through his teeth. Ra's croons above him removing his hands for a moment to take his shoulders and push Tiger up. Slips behind him, maneuvering around until Tiger is laying down, half collapsed in his lap.  
  
"That's it," Ra's moves his hands underneath Tiger's arms, beginning his investigation of Tiger's body once more, starting with drawing patterns on his hips. Tiger's cock is achingly hard, lying against the silk of the cloth, twitching with every hard, definite touch Ra's places on his skin. It's getting harder to think now, hadn't been easy before. All his body does is limply give into the touches, nothing more than sentient putty at this point.  
  
He growls after a moment of Ra's continuous exploration downwards, fingers sliding back and forth through the hair on his navel. It's stupidly erotic. "Stop it."  
  
"There you are," Ra's pauses only for a moment, one hand sliding up his body until it comes to rest lightly on Tiger's throat. "I thought I'd lost you to your dreams again."  
  
Words slip through his fingers like sand, arguing has become a lot harder as of late. Even more so the moment Tiger opens his mouth and Ra's presses down against the heavy gold collar. His bark comes out as more of a wheeze. "You hate it when I'm alone with myself, even with you."  
  
"Any man would be nervous leaving an enemy within reach of their greatest weapon." The hand on Tiger's navel moves lower, skirting around the base of his cock, past his balls to rub over the skin of his perineum. That drags a hiss from his clenched teeth. Ra's coos, "but I have missed your tongue for some time now. An unfortunate side effect, you grow quieter the more relaxed you are."  
  
_As do most people._ Tiger shifts, moving his hips a little higher, only for Ra's to rock his hips up in time allowing Tiger to feel the swell in his slacks. It's annoying to Tiger that Ra's is well endowed for a man of his age, no matter the help he's been given from the pits. At the very least fate could have offset the discovery of a literal fountain of youth with a tiny cock. Karma is nonexistent; there is no better example.  
  
Tiger collapses back against Ra's huffing and sore from the cold. "I have never liked talking, it is your fault for thinking otherwise."  
  
"Oh?" Ra's leans forward, close enough that his beard scratches against Tiger's jaw. Close enough that Tiger can feel his lips against his cheek when he smirks and _feel_ his response rather than listen. "But you sing so beautifully for me every night."  
  
It's hilarious in that pathetically sad kind of what that degrading talk shared by pigs parading themselves around as human men have not changed much in the last few centuries. Ra's knows how to dress his words elegantly, but the meaning is still no different than something he'd receive from a biker in a run-down bar. Wealth and status really mean nothing. Ra's is just as happy rolling around in the mud like the rest of them.  
  
A finger circles the puckered skin of his hole. Wet with slick that perfumes the air with its potent sweetness. Tiger really is blacking out a lot more often than he thinks, because Ra's didn't have oil a second ago. _One of his dozens of aides fetched it for him. If only they could bring condoms too._ The finger starts slipping inside, easy now that the resistance has been trained out of him. Still, Ra's is too purposefully cruel to leave it at that.  
  
Tiger grips the silk sheets around him; fingers right to tear as Ra's massages the soft, hot skin of his insides. "You open like a flower for me, _habibi."  
  
_"I could stand to go without your insulting talk," nonetheless his legs fall open wider, relaxing as Ra's pushes all the way to the knuckle. The pain is nothing, if anything just a momentary ache that is there and gone again. Too familiar a sensation, his body does not possess the same flush of shame that his head does, cheeks turning pink. Ra's no longer searches for the place he knows as deeply as the scars on Tiger's back and pokes around just to watch Tiger squirm.  
  
At the same time, Ra's slowly fucks him with his finger, his other hand finds Tiger's chest and drags his nails back and forth. "You know I mean everything I say without sarcasm. It is only you who insists otherwise. I should take you across my lap for the insinuation, that taught you fairly well last time."  
  
If Tiger's face was pink before it's red as a tomato now. His skin burns under the flush and quick drag of Ra's hand across his prostate draws a protesting whine from his mouth.  
  
How could he forget? Can't remember the day or the hour, only the growling curses he snarled at Ra's when he finally had enough sense to do so. His mouth had fumbled over the insults, tongue still swollen from the poisoned tea, but screamed such vulgarity the memory even offends him. Ra's had slapped him for it, and then that didn't work, pulled Tiger across his lap in the main hall of the compound and spanked him as if he were nothing more than a naughty child. The punishment had resulted in an impossibility to sit, let alone walk, for days after the humiliation.  
  
Tiger swallows his retort and clenches his fists a little tighter. "That will not be necessary."  
  
Ra's chuckles, sliding in a second finger still resolutely ignoring Tiger's painfully red cock. Lips find his ear; hot breath tickling the back of his neck as Ra's hums and laughs softly with every shuddering whimper he drags from Tiger's throat. "One day I will have to have a mirror installed at the foot of the bed. Just so you can see yourself as I take you, Namir. It is an exquisite sight."  
  
He'd scoff if he could. Instead, and much to his own muted alarm, his mind conjures up a particularly lewd image. One of himself, stretched on the bed as he had been three nights ago. Ra's shoving his face into the soft mountains of pillows beneath him, hips raised, ass on display like a frantic queen in heat. The sounds that had left his mouth that night echoed down the halls and back to them, a distant, frenzied wailing at every stroke of Ra's cock against his prostate. Can see himself in the reflection of a mirror, mouth parted and slick with drool, hair disarray from Ra's constant petting. It's terribly obscene and everything Ra's adores.  
  
A mean scrape of Ra's nail against his nipple has Tiger arching back against Ra's chest, away from the cruel touch. He growls lightly at the third finger that pushes in along the two. Ra's chuckles again. "You are impatient."  
  
"You move too slowly. Is it too hard to just stick it in and be done with it?" Tiger grunts as the fingers curl. "Perhaps you are just too old now."  
  
"If you are an animal." Ra's tuts and rolls his fingers, spreading them apart every so often. "Just because you share a name does not mean I am going to treat you as one."  
  
Tiger wishes he would. At least maybe then he wouldn't have to stand for all this gloating. Ra's shifts and just lightly press his fingers against his spot, rubbing. A second passes before Tiger is panting, chest shaking with the mounting pleasure in his already too hard cock. Exhausted and tired, he somehow finds the energy to writhe and tremble hard enough Ra's pins him down with an arm around his chest. A moment later, high mewls and keens he never thought he could make spill through clenched teeth, cock jolting with ever hard press of Ra's fingers. His finish comes incredibly fast, racing towards the precipice of his climax only for Ra's to slip his fingers out and hold Tiger's hips still through the sudden denial.  
  
The whine he makes is indecently provocative, even to himself.  
  
Ra's takes note too, breath catching noticeably near Tiger's ear. Quite immediately, Tiger finds himself on his stomach, cheek pressing against the silk sheets. Funny, Tiger thinks in a daze, how cold it had been when he was out on the balcony. Now everything is too hot. The room, its incense and candles, even the sheets, are too hot against his cheek. He laughs lightly after a moment. Doesn't that just sum up his captivity with Ra's perfectly? Only emotional extremes varying between helpless apathy and manic fury come to Tiger when he is awake, not drugged with Ra's experimental teas.  
  
The only time he is allowed to feel otherwise is in Ra's bed, face pressing against the sheets and helplessly fucked. Memory association and emotional learning are powerful things, it is no wonder to Tiger now--that he can think more than just feel--how he has descended into Stockholm syndrome so quickly. A clear mind comes with overwhelming pleasure, beyond that is numbness and mindless distress. The bastard's been doing this since he first forced that cup of tea down his throat. Training him unconsciously accept and desire these fleeting moments of clarity accompanied by Ra’s clever fingers.  
  
Shuffling behind him. The bed dips before a bare leg pushes apart Tiger's thighs, two hands grasping Tiger's wrists. Tiger hates this position.  
  
"You shower me in praise and tell me you have known few as handsome," Tiger tilts his head. Ra's towers above him completely bare. There are no scars that litter his body. No wrinkles or freckles from the damage of the sun. Instead, there are the curls of dark hair that cover the length of his chest down the crests of his abdomen and navel. His thick and long cock bobs between his thighs, glistening with oil. Tiger's own cock, now trapped against his stomach, gives a twitch. Tiger, in contrast, glares at Ra's infuriating smirk. "All of this and you take me with my face hidden from you. Is it so I cannot see your hideous face wrinkled and sagging with shadows? Perhaps you realize the pit cannot solve everything, such as the unattractive sections of your face.”  
  
Ra's pauses, smirk falling off his face for the first time since Tiger's extended stay. His green eyes don't darken or narrow but _glow._ A vivid, sickly green overwhelms the natural emerald iris and Tiger, equally surprised, shrinks into the mattress. Then, quite suddenly, it fades, and Ra's is grinning again, much too tightly when he leans down. Far enough to nip along Tiger's shoulders as his cock slips against the cheeks of Tiger's ass.  
  
“A shame your tongue can’t be trained as easily as your cock, you’d enjoy your stay a lot more if that were true.” Then the weight is gone, leaving Tiger shivering in the absence despite the overbearing heat. Above him, Ra’s snaps his fingers and commands something his mind does not catch. It’s spoken in a language that Tiger can only place from the lack of uvular consonants, Kusunda. Whatever Ra’s says is too fast for him to understand, half muffled by the blankets in one ear. Above him, the shadows move like before. Men garbed in black silk, with green accents fall from their post and scurry out the door.  
  
The lack of an audience does not calm Tiger’s bubbling anxiety. It only rises in his throat when the clinking of the golden chains ring in his ears right before Ra’s yanks him up by the collar. Tugged back, Tiger grabs at the collar, air cut off by the edge, sluggishly. Ra's easily bats his hands away.  
  
“Perhaps, I should thank you, habibi,” Ra’s pulls Tiger down onto his lap, one hand pushing his legs apart until they are separated by Ra’s knees. The position pulls at his sore muscles in such a way it makes his muscles shake. Certainly, doesn’t need to look down to see how on display he is. “If it were not for your need to be purposefully vexing, just to prove that you have not failed your mission, I would have never sought to indulge myself in your discomfort.  
  
Tiger growls. A deep, questioning noise that echoes in the room before being muted over the loud pattering of clothed footsteps. The men have returned from their errand. They come carrying an enormous, ornate mirror, that is at least several meters in height, with gold-leaf decorative framing that curls and loops around in patterns of an ouroboros eating its tail. Its width must be the length of a fully-grown man, so impossibly large that it blocks out the entirety of the rest of the room. Tiger, for one fraction of a second, wonders how it even manages to stand. The means to do so clearly don’t matter to Ra’s, who barks out a command that has the rest of the league members scurrying out of sight.  
  
Leaving Tiger and Ra’s alone, face to face with their own reflections.  
  
Tiger meets his gaze in the mirror once. It is enough. The image is almost identical to what he imagined, if not for the few obvious dissimilarities. He is not half-hidden, pushed down into the mattress with Ra’s towering above him. Instead, he is the proverbial jewel in the center of a crown. Spread wide in the center, glittering in the dim light from sweat and the gold that adorns him. A faint pink blush starts at his cheeks before crawling down the length of his bared throat, dipping beneath the collar before fanning out across the width of his chest. His own eyes are half-lidded, hazel now a rich, warm brown, covered by his own thick lashes. He can go on. About the red “o” of his mouth or the way his chest stutters with every shallow intake of breath, there are myriads of tiny details shown back to him so perfectly clear.  
  
Most embarrassing is the sight of his hole, wet with the remnants of slick from Ra’s fingers, pink and visibly needy.  
  
Ra’s is an afterthought behind him. Radiating smug self-satisfaction, Ra’s is nothing more than Tiger’s restrictive shadow, face only just slightly visible behind the curve of Tiger’s shoulder. His cock is more prominent in the mirror image. Just beneath the swell of Tiger’s ass, proudly throbbing as it waits for its turn. Tiger’s own ignored cock, lies against his stomach, weeping pearl droplets every so often. He ducks his head.  
  
“Oh no, none of that,” Ra’s grips Tiger’s chin tightly and turns it back to the mirror. “You will keep your eyes open and in front for the duration of this. If you so much as glance down, I will allow the men you have kept from their duties to tend to us all night have their turns. They have expressed their desire to me in explicit detail, habibi, should you like to experience it first-hand.”  
  
As if Ra’s could say anything worse. Ra’s obsession with Tiger’s body hits every limit he has on the matter, to bring in more hands, more faces, more inelegant, crude talk about the way his body arches from filthy touches is enough to hold his gaze with his reflection. Ra’s smiles, resting his chin on his shoulder and drops his hand after a moment of certainty. “A shame, Ubu will be the most disappointed.”  
  
Tiger curls his lip, sneering at Ra’s in the mirror. “Unfortunate for him.”  
  
Ra’s hums, eyes flicking down the same time his hands find their place on Tiger’s hips. With practiced ease Ra’s lifts Tiger up slightly, positioning him directly above the head of his cock and slowly lowers him down. It’s…It’s infuriatingly erotic to watch. The way the head of his cock comes to press against Tiger’s hole, that he’s being held at an angle to see the moment Ra’s pushes in. Sucks in a breath and holds it, just watching as the skin stretches around the head of his cock and the resulting little pinch that races through the branching trails of his veins. Tiger pants shallowly, face turning a bright red as Ra’s continues to push in, past the little resistance that hasn’t fully been trained out of him. The sight will become the star of his memory, the single image of him stretching around the thickest portion of Ra’s considerable girth so utterly lewd Tiger reflexively clenches down just to test it.  
  
The feeling of fullness is overwhelmed by watching his body move in real time. A groan leaves his lips and his head falls back against Ra’s shoulder. There is nothing he can do, nothing he has been able to do, besides lie there, nothing more than Ra’s pretty bed warmer until the novelty wears off.  
  
If it ever does. Ra’s seems to possess a rather long attention span. That’s a rather dark thought. Tiger pushes it back, focusing on the growing need to reach his finish.  
  
Were he any less used to the feeling, Tiger’s certain he would be breathless by now. Eyes fluttering shut as they did at the start, unable to do anything more than squirm and weep at the enormity of Ra’s powerful thrusts. Now, he keeps his eyes open slightly, hands grabbing at Ra’s thighs at the first drag of his cock. Out, in, out, in. Slow and methodical, Tiger feels every inch of Ra’s prick alongside each vein and twitch. A moan falls from his mouth after a second, unbidden. After that comes a second and by the time Ra’s snaps his hips harder Tiger is nothing but a broken record of mewls and whines. Pitiful, sounding like that of an abandoned kitten, Tiger digs bloody half-moons into Ra’s thighs that will be gone by morning.  
  
Ra’s watches them move in the mirror, spreading Tiger’s legs wider, favoring flicking his gaze between Tiger’s face and cock. Doesn’t move to touch it, and Tiger knows better. Every slam to his prostate makes him wheeze and it isn’t long at all before Tiger is scratching at Ra’s skin, growling out his pre-release.  
  
Only for Ra’s to drop his hand down and squeeze his cock hard, completely stopping. Tiger wails his disapproval.  
  
“Tell me,” Ra’s bites at his ear. Eyes green embers in the mirror. “Tell me what you are and I will allow you this, despite your arrogant tongue.”  
  
Tiger pants, swallowing tightly. Shifts his hips only for Ra’s to slap his cock and make him yowl.  
  
“Yours,” he chokes out, body screaming from the touch. “ _Yours_ , I’m, _ah, yours_.”  
  
“That’s better.”  
  
Tiger is only half aware when Ra’s slides out of him, completely slipping out from behind his back. Tiger blinks and then Ra’s is over him, tugging Tiger up by the chain. Stumbling, Tiger goes, wobbling on his feet, muscles and nerves on fire from the sudden movement as Ra’s manhandles him across the bedroom floor in the direction of the mirror. All too quickly Tiger is shoved against the glass—it holds, thankfully—hissing when the cool glass touches his hot chest.  
  
Only gets far enough to press his hands against the glass and push back before Ra’s is pushing his cock back inside. The new angle puts him in direct contact with his prostate and Tiger melts against the glass, hands sliding down and looking for purchase.  
  
“I have had many men and women over the centuries of my life,” Ra’s rumbles into his ear. “None of them as memorable as you. Watch, watch as you finish, beloved.”  
  
Tiger couldn’t refuse if he tried. Ra’s pulls him back far enough that Tiger can see the length of his body right before he comes, painting the mirror and his stomach in a layer of translucent white. His body spasms, limp and weightless in Ra’s strong hold. He coos at Tiger dragging a finger through the mess on his stomach and offering it. Dazed, Tiger opens his mouth and accepts it, scrunching his nose at the bitter taste. His mirror image eagerly laps at Ra’s double’s finger, blissed out and well-fucked. So this is what he looks like. _It’s a wonder_ , he thinks dazedly _, Ra’s ever leaves him alone._  
  
A snarl tears through the air and teeth find his neck. Pain blossoms across his shoulder, racing up his throat and into his own teeth. Ra’s holds him tightly when he tries to yank himself free, scratching at the hands that pin him. Heat suddenly fills him, blisteringly hot against his sore insides. He pants and moans as Ra’s rocks him through the aftershocks of his release, drops of come slipping free and sliding down his shaking legs. Tiger grimaces, wishing so desperately that he had any sense left in his mind to strike at Ra’s while he was distracted chasing his own pleasure. To catch his throat with the golden chain around his neck and choke him until it was too late for even the pit to save him.  
  
Except Tiger really isn’t that man anymore.  
  
He does nothing more than hold on and gasp when Ra’s pulls free, wilting in his arms like a dying flower, embarrassingly weak. Ra’s, hair wet and falling free from its usual style, cradles his face with a hand. “There you are, Namir, my perfect pet.”  
  
Tiger leans into the touch. The smooth skin of Ra’s hand is strangely cool to Tiger’s own overheated body. Something, a noise, fills the air between them growing louder when Ra’s draws a hand under his knees and lifts him up. The noise stutters then continues. It’s him. He’s purring. He didn’t know he could do that.  
  
Ra’s shushes him and carries him back to the bed. Come and oil drip down his thighs and onto the stone floor. The bed welcomes him, enveloping him in a blanket of exhaustion and comfort before he even completely relaxes. Above him, Ra’s sits beside him, a hand carding through his hair. Tiger doesn’t protest the gentle action and instead leans into it.  
  
He’s so tired of fighting. Tired of the punishments, of forcing himself to think when all he receives, in turn, is his own frustration and impatience. Here and now he can afford to close his eyes for once and not have to worry about escape or Spyral or the fate of the world and it’s billions of ignorant people. He can just _be.  
  
_Above him Ra’s purrs. “Tomorrow, we finish our game.”  
  
Funny, he’s already lost.


End file.
